


Under the Influence

by beastlybat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Demon/Human Relationships, Drunk Sex, M/M, Power Bottom Crowley, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastlybat/pseuds/beastlybat
Summary: Dean tries to rationalize the arrangement he has fallen into with the king of Hell. Takes place sometime after 9x17.
Relationships: Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020, SPN Rare Ship Bingo 2020





	Under the Influence

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'd by the glorious and devilishly beautiful dooms. It was originally meant to be a short ficlet, but I sure don't know how to keep from waxing poetic and made it wayyy longer than I'd intended. Oops? It fulfills the free space on my SPN Rare Ships bingo card and the drunk sex square on my SPN Kink bingo card. You can find me over on Tumblr at beastlybat for more of my nonsense if you're into that kind of thing.

Dean Winchester—the way he saw it—had two options when it came to justifying his whatever the fuck you'd call this thing that'd formed between him and Crowley. What was it? A _tryst_ , an _agreement_...Dangerous words when applied to the former leader of the crossroads and current king of Hell. Of course, neither options were all that compelling, but he only needed to fool himself. Which was impossible. Dean knew how to see through his own bullshit despite his best efforts, but if there was one thing he excelled at, it was steadfastly avoiding his better judgement. Just take a look at some of his latest fuck-ups...

The first option was to write it off as nothing more than a fluke brought on by alcohol-addled poor judgement. Solid enough, but thin considering it kept happening. The second was to squarely place the blame on the Mark of Cain. Dean had chosen a combination of the two as his excuse of choice. As such, he only gave in to the temptation when the call of the Mark became deafening and his veins held more alcohol than red blood cells. 

For his part, Crowley was more discreet than Dean had ever expected and he was still waiting for that shoe to drop at any moment. Granted, it was probably only because the king of Hell knew that as soon as the cat was out of the bag about their...relations...the sex would come to a full stop and the sex was beneficial for the both of them. You know, beyond being beneficial for the obvious reason of just being really good sex.

The human blood Crowley kept being strung out on had him jonesing for emotional connections. Naturally, Dean would deny with every breath he had that any emotional connecting of any kind was happening between them. He still kept stubbornly telling himself that he'd been protecting that rookie hunter when he'd stopped him from going after the demon back at that bar the first time he'd called Crowley. It had been for the hunter's sake, not Crowley's. The demon would have gone after the boy's family. Dean kept telling himself that he hadn't hesitated when Sam had suggested they kill Crowley after retrieving the First Blade. He had been ready to kill Crowley. Crowley had just intervened before he had the chance. Dean kept telling himself he wasn't relieved about that either.

For Dean, the Mark made him itch in a way that wasn't entirely dissimilar to the demon's humanity addiction. They were mirrored ills, parallel but inverted. Sex helped to alleviate the Mark's intensity some and it did a hell of a better job of it for Dean than drinking ever could; especially if the sex he was having felt 50 shades of wrong. Apparently. Because it wasn't like he didn't have other options. He had plenty, but he still kept ending up right back there. With Crowley. Of all monsters.

It was really for the best. Or so he'd keep telling himself. The Mark had Dean acting more and more reckless; merciless and decisive without care for anything but his own goals. Whatever those happened to be in the moment. The Mark had him needing to spill something and when it came down to it, it didn't matter if it was blood or semen or both. He didn't want to end up hurting someone who didn't deserve it. This was actually the safest arrangement he could hope for.

He'd find excuses to go off without Sam to some hole-in-the-wall dive bar of the week—nothing out of the usual there. No reason Sam should have been suspicious for even a second. The way the Mark spiked his alcohol intake only helped to mask the whole thing. He needed a constant supply help him keep his grip. Half the time he went out, it'd be business as usual and the other half...he'd get drunk enough to wind up texting Crowley his location and the guilt would instantly start to corrode within his gut. Given enough of a chance, Crowley would push all of his buttons just right so that the guilt wasn't forgotten but was temporarily overpowered by the urge to fight or fuck and since they _did_ still need the Blade and Crowley was the only one who knew where he was hiding it, Dean couldn't exactly risk killing the smug bastard.

Which landed them in another hotel that had no right to be as pricey as it was. Dean sure as hell wasn't going to chance running into anyone who'd recognize him and Crowley had been a mouthy bitch going on and on about being too delicate to be treated like some common whore when Dean had tried to fuck him in an alley the first time. Dean hadn't cared enough to fight the demon on it. He'd given in. Dean had wanted it and wanted it over with quickly. Where it happened hadn't much matter as long as the risk of being caught was low. But it hadn't been a quick fuck. It'd turned into a marathon, unrelenting and, okay, Dean wasn't complaining about the whole supernatural stamina thing. Now their final destination for the evenings Dean gave in to his more base urges was always some hotel he was certain he'd never step foot in again.

That was how they'd ended up sweat-slicked and panting inside the Who Even Cares Inn. Dean always made a conscious effort at being drunk enough not to remember much in the way of the short term. 

He was usually partner-focused when it came to his sexual conquests. He liked the experience to be about the other person. Making them feel good made him feel good. It always had. It was a win-win, but the Mark distorted his sexual appetite into something hungrier. It made him selfish in ways that he would never allow himself to indulge otherwise. His main concern was getting off and if that came at the cost of someone's comfort, so be it. Maybe Dean was pounding into the other more forcefully than was necessary and if Crowley could even register the aches and pains of the possessed man's body he inhabited as he'd suggested in the past, he might have been complaining. Crowley didn't mind, going off the endless babbling of the little sadomasochist, which mostly consisted of lewd demands, come-ons, and witticisms that Dean chose to largely ignore as usual despite the spurring affect the stream of consciousness had on him. The demon had a lot to say, but 'be gentler' wasn't it.

Sometimes Dean would ask in his drunken slur if Crowley ever shut up, sometimes he'd simply shove Crowley's head hard enough against the pillow or force his fingers deep enough into the demon's mouth that Crowley couldn't keep at it, and other times, as was the case tonight, he'd just let it happen and give in to the angry British lit as it washed over him. 

His arm was shaking either from the demand of the Mark or the strain of his body weight, pressing his forearm into the mattress to keep himself up. He had no issue crushing Crowley, but the leverage made it easier to drive into him at that brutal pace. This wasn't their norm. Doing this, face-to-face. It's not the way it usually goes. Usually Dean's own shame prompts him to make things less personal and he thinks Crowley has caught on to that. Maybe that's why he never wants to shut up, so Dean can't easily forget who's under him. Or more likely, Crowley just loves the sound of his own damn voice.

One of the demon's legs was hooked over Dean's shoulder and it couldn't be comfortable, but nothing about what they're doing is and Dean can't be bothered to give a fuck. He watched as those dark brown eyes lightened to endless red and felt that familiar coil tighten low in his belly. Dean's endless grunts morph into words and he's so tight-lipped about it that at first the slapping of skin drowns out the sound of practiced Latin, but the affects take hold all the same. Crowley is soon yelling in protest and Dean continues on with a new sense of urgency, snapping his hips erratically but managing to keep his pronunciation of the exorcism rite perfect despite the drunken haze he's operating through.

Dean cums with Latin on his lips. Despite the extended exertion, Dean's breathing was steady and slow. He wasn't sure if that was due to the alcohol or the eerie calming influence of the Mark but he's thankful for it. It would have been a lot harder to chant if he'd been breathless. He is quick to clean himself up and get dressed. Crowley would be back sooner rather than later to reclaim his favored flesh and Dean wanted to be long gone before that happened. Dean hadn't been a complete ass. He'd only recited the first half of the exorcism, knowing that sending Crowley to Hell would only mean letting Abaddon sink her pretty red claws into him. Expelling the bastard from his meatsuit however, was justified and a damn practical move. He wasn't exactly one for awkward post-coital goodbyes.

He does take the time to check for a hidden camera however, just in case. He doesn't find one, but he isn't convinced he hasn't just missed it. He doesn't have time to thoroughly turn the room over and can't bring himself to care enough to bother trying. He grabs his jacket, taking out his phone and calls Sam to let him know he was headed back, mentions having run into some demonic trouble just to account for the smell of sulfur that still clings to his skin. He cast a final glance at the lifeless, naked empty shell on the bed and flicks off the light of the hotel room before closing the door behind him and making his exit.


End file.
